Ain't No Rest For The Wicked
by brownpaperbags
Summary: It's been two weeks since Stiles and the crew defeated the Nogitsune. Scott and Lydia are dealing with losing Allison and Aiden, but they don't realize that there was a third casualty left behind by the fox spirit. Stiles is not handling things well. Can anyone bring him out of his self-induced exile? Can he forgive himself?
1. Can't Fight This Feeling

Author's Note: This is my first Teen Wolf fanfiction. I hope you all like it. I might turn it into a story depending on the response I get. If you like it please take a moment and leave a comment. They are greatly appreciated!

"This movie is stupid," Malia groaned, throwing her head back against Stiles' couch in boredom.

"It's not stupid," Stiles sighed, raising the remote and pausing the film. "It's a classic piece of cinema. An epic tale of good versus evil."

"It's stupid," Malia disagreed immediately. "It's not even in order. Who starts with the fourth movie, finishes the series, and then does the first three?"

"A genius by the name of George Lucas," Stiles said reverently. "Besides, the first three are a prologue to the final three. The first three films help explain the past that leads to the last three films."

"But the first three films ARE the last three films..."

"No," Stiles said, then paused as he thought about it. "Well, yes, technically the first three films Lucas created are meant to be an end to the story, but when you look at them in a numbered perspective it all flows together."

"But that's cheating," Malia said, looking at Stiles as if he were crazy. "It's like reading the ending of the book before you read the rest. You already know what's going to happen."

Stiles stared at the werecoyote for half a second, attempting to organize his thoughts before he exploded in a rage over the fact that none of his friends seemed to understand the genius of Star Wars except for him. Finally, unwilling to allow anything to ruin his appreciation of the Skywalker saga, he said, "Just watch the movie. It'll make sense when it's done."

He gave the play button a firm push and settled back to watch the movie. Not that he hadn't seen the damn things a thousand times. He could practically recite them word for word, but watching the movies allowed him precious time to simply think. He had a lot to think about, after all. It had only been two weeks ago that he'd been possessed by an evil fox spirit, nearly killed everyone he cared about, lost his virginity and, oh yeah, murdered the love of his best friend's life.

Stiles swallowed and bit his tongue as the guilt he'd grown so familiar with clenched tightly in his stomach. He could already hear Scott's rebuke in his mind. It wasn't you, Stiles. Don't blame yourself, Stiles. But, Stiles did blame himself. How could he not? He should have been stronger, should have stopped the nogitsune from taking control of him in the first place. Or, even if he couldn't of kept the nogitsune from tearing his mind apart he should have stopped it sooner. Stopped _himself_ sooner. If he had simply allowed Ms. Morrell to kill him when she had first suggested it, Allison would still be alive; Aiden would still be alive. And Stiles wouldn't have to face his friends, knowing that, even though they murmured all the assurances in the world, they would never forget that Stiles had been the reason their lives would never be the same. Scott, Lydia, Argent, Isaac, Ms. McCall, Ethan, Coach Finstock, his father. He had hurt so many people and all because he'd been weak. He had always been a liability to their little league of super heroes, but he had never felt it more than he had in the past two weeks.

It hadn't helped that everyone treated him like he was seconds from a nervous breakdown. Regardless of how true that statement may or may not have been it irritated Stiles to no end that his friends walked around him on eggshells. That was when they came at all. Stiles hadn't seen Scott or Lydia more than once or twice since Allison's funeral a week and a half ago. He couldn't say he blamed them for not coming around. In fact, he would have preferred it if they hadn't come at all, but their visits were made worse because they spoke to him like he was a skittish horse. He wanted anger from them, disgust, _something_ more than their constant reassurances that everything was going to be okay. That they loved him and would be there for him if he ever wanted to talk.

Even his own father had been driving Stiles up the wall. He had refused to allow Stiles to go back to school until the dark circles had completely disappeared from beneath his eyes, until his skin had regained some of its color, although Stiles had argued that he'd had little color to begin with. The sheriff had followed Stiles everywhere for the first week of his path to physical recovery as if his son was on the verge of collapsing at any moment. Every tremor of Stiles' hands was met with a frown, every pained grimace as his body reset itself from whatever the hell the nogitsune had done to him was cause for concern. Stiles wanted to tell his father that the scars were never going to go away, that the tired sickly rings around his eyes were probably going to be a permanent addition and that he just wanted to be left the hell alone, but he couldn't do that to his dad. The man was already stressed enough as it was. Attempting to hide the fact that a demon that happened to look an awful lot like your son went on a killing spree in a hospital full of cameras and witnesses was enough to drive anyone of out of their mind with nerves, but add werewolves, banshees and a psychologically fucked up kid to the mix and it could give a man a heart attack. So far their luck had held out in regards to hospital CCV tapes miraculously disappearing, and though Stiles slightly wished he could have been caught because retribution of some sort seemed only fair, he supposed he should be happy that his dad's job seemed safe enough. For the moment anyway. And, against all odds, his father had finally relented on Stiles going back to school. He would be starting up again tomorrow and with all the work he had to make up from his initial spiral into nogitsune spurned insanity to now he would have little time to think about anything else. To an outsider it would seem that Stiles life was getting infinitely better, but he had never felt more miserable.

"What are you thinking about?" Malia asked suddenly, snapping Stiles out of his melancholy reverie. She was staring at him in that intense way of hers and Stiles felt his face flush.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely, gesturing halfheartedly at the tv. "Just watching the movie."

If Malia sensed he was lying she didn't call him out on it. Instead she looked at the tv screen with thinly veiled disgust, grabbed the remote and promptly turned it off.

"Hey," Stiles protested, reaching for the remote. "Nobody puts baby in a corner and nobody, I mean nobody, turns off Han Solo."

"I have something better than Han Solo," Malia said, rolling into his lap like she belonged there.

"What could possibly be better than-" His breath hitched as she lowered her lips to his and moved her hips so they were perfectly aligned with his own. She kissed him hard as if the pressure of her lips would keep him from unraveling, keep him from spiraling down into the dark tunnel that had become his life. And, God help him, he responded. He didn't deserve her affection, didn't deserve much of anything from anyone. He should stop her, stop himself from kissing her, from moving his hands across her skin, feeling the heat of her above him. But he was weak. And it felt so damned good to forget, even for the smallest moment.

"You were right," Stiles whispered between kisses. "This is way better."

Malia growled in frustration at his interruption and pulled him back in for another kiss. Her fists were entwined in his hair tightly and he briefly allowed himself a small pat on the back for finally growing it out the previous summer. It was a decision he had pondered long and hard during those boring summer months. When Lydia had first seen it she had simply cocked her head, pouted her lips and made a noise rather like acceptance. Or dismissal. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference when it came to Lydia. But Allison had told him that it made him look more grown up. She'd approved and Stiles had spent the next week preening over his new do, much to Scott and Isaac's annoyance.

The thought of Allison brought Stiles' brief reprieve to an abrupt end. Malia, sensing something was off, pulled back and looked at him questioningly. He blinked once and attempted to arrange his features into something neutral. She stared at him, her expression so similar to that of her animal counterpart, that he couldn't help a small smile.

"What?" Malia finally snapped when he didn't say anything.

Stiles winced. She still hadn't mastered the art of tact, but it was a work in progress. EVERYTHING with Malia was a work in progress, but what do you expect when you spent eight years as a wild animal. She'd only recently grasped the concept that meat was supposed to be cooked. He could still recall the look on his father's face as the female coyote threw balls of raw hamburger meat in her mouth like they were kernels of popcorn.

"Nothing," Stiles said after a moment.

"You keep saying that," Malia accused, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I'm just tired," Stiles said, shifting his weight so that Malia slid off his lap. He tried to ignore the glare she sent him at his obvious slight.

"You don't sleep," Malia said. She wasn't asking, but telling, as if she knew about the countless hours Stiles spent tossing and turning each night. About the waking nightmares that left him covered in a sheen sweat of terror, biting his own fist to keep himself from screaming and waking his father.

"I sleep," Stiles replied awkwardly.

"No," Malia said. "You don't."

"How would you know?" Stiles heard himself asking, irritation clearly present in his voice.

"I watch you," Malia told him.

"You what?"

"I watch you. At night."

Stiles almost accused her of joking with him, but the harsh reality was that Malia rarely joked. She was rather like Derek in that way. But, where Derek was simply grumpy and antisocial by choice, Malia was serious because she hadn't learned how to be anything else. Stiles swallowed once in an attempt to find words that wouldn't come out angry, but he was furious. Perhaps he should have been flattered...if not slightly creeped out...but the only thing he could think about was Malia seeing him sweating and shaking. Seeing him broken. He'd worked so hard at keeping up his mask, making everyone around him think he was fine because he couldn't bear the thought of his friends, who had already been through so much because of him, having to handle his pain on top of their own.

"What do you mean you watch me at night?" Stiles asked softly, still attempting to control his anger.

"I climb up through your window and then I watch you," Malia answered, looking at him as if what she had just said was the most normal thing in the world.

"What the hell, Malia? You can't do shit like that!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's...weird, Malia. REALLY weird. And a complete invasion of privacy. We talked about personal boundaries, remember?"

"People need space," Malia recited, rolling her eyes. "Or else they'll think you're a pervert."

"Right," Stiles said, his anger webbing away as quickly as it had come. "And people don't like perverts, Malia." He smiled at her, hoping she would leave the subject alone.

"What are you dreaming about?" Malia asked quietly, dashing Stiles' hopes of her dropping the subject. "I see you and I know your in pain, but I don't know why."

"Malia," Stiles began.

"Is it the Nogitsune thing?" She took his silence as affirmation and continued. "It's gone, Stiles. You don't have to worry about it anymore."

"It's not that simple," Stiles said, gritting his teeth.

"Then explain it to me."

"I can't," Stiles said lamely.

"Nobody blames you for Allison," Malia said to him.

Her words were like a punch to his stomach and he winced as if she had actually hit him. He couldn't do this with her, couldn't talk about Allison with someone who would never understand what she had meant to him. What she had meant to Scott. And what it would mean now that she was gone.

"For someone so clueless about the world you sure assume a lot, don't you?" He could hear the cruelty in his voice and he instantly regretted it, but he wouldn't apologize. He needed to be alone, desired it in a way that made his heart squeeze with need.

"For someone who thinks he knows everything you sure are blind," Malia snapped back. "You aren't alone, Stiles. People care about you. I...I care about you."

"You shouldn't," Stiles said instantly.

"Stop being an idiot," Malia growled at him. "This isn't you."

"You don't know me, Malia."

"I know your a fighter," Malia said. "You fought the nogitsune and you WON, Stiles. What happened to the guy who refused to give up even when everything was at its worst? You helped save me. You help save everyone. Why can't you remember that?"

"Because Allison is gone," Stiles whispered, his voice tortured. "Because my best friend can't even look at me for more than a few seconds. Because the girl I was in love with has to pretend she doesn't flinch when I touch her. And because every time I look in the mirror all I can see is him staring back at me."

"Stiles," Malia whispered. "You can't just shut everyone out."

"Watch me," Stiles croaked. The lump of emotion in his throat was almost too much to handle and he had to turn away from her to wipe the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes away with one hand. When he turned back she was staring at him with a mix of frustration and concern. She looked fierce and the urge to kiss her, to pretend for a little while longer, was so intense that Stiles actually took a step toward her before he was able to stop himself. Instead, he gestured listlessly at the door and said, "You should go."

"I don't want to."

"Please," Stiles whispered. "Please, Malia. Just go."

She went with an angry growl, slamming the door behind her. Stiles listened to the ringing silence her absence had left behind. He could hear his heart beating rapidly, reminding him that he was only mortal. Reminding him that he was weak and needed to stay away from those he loved lest he kill them too. He was better off alone. Just him and the malicious demon that hadn't really gone away. Would never go away. A shadow on his soul that would eventually destroy him.

"Everyone has it but no one can lose it," Stiles whispered emotionlessly before crawling back to the couch.

He turned on the TV and pressed play on the remote, turning his attention back to Star Wars. Only this time it was to get away from his thoughts.

"Only at the end do you realize the power of the Dark Side," Stiles said along with Emperor Palpatine.

And, Stiles realized, it was as true for him in that moment as it was for Luke Skywalker. He had thought he could beat the darkness inside him, but he was wrong. His arrogance had cost people their lives. And, maybe, it would one day return for him. He would welcome it like an old friend. Because anything was better than the empty pain he felt. Darkness would be a relief, an answered prayer.

After all, darkness was simply the absence of everything.


	2. Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head

Stiles couldn't sleep. Or, more accurately, didn't _want_ to sleep. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Nogitsune had tricked everyone once again and was waiting, lurking in his subconscious for him to show a moment of weakness. For him to fall asleep. Even when he did manage to convince himself the Nogitsune was really gone the nightmares were always ready to take the place of his self-doubt. They were always the same, always filled with blood and death. Always at his hands. He would watch himself killing his friends and family. Breaking his father's neck, feeling the bones crunch beneath his fingers. Slitting Lydia's throat, watching mesmerized as her blood spurted across the walls and stained her beautiful hair scarlet. Scott, Isaac, Malia. None of them could escape his clutches. And all the while he screamed from inside the Nogitsune's prison, unable to do anything but watch as his life was destroyed. At the end of it all, he would stare at himself in the mirror, drenched in blood, the Nogitsune forcing his lips to smile through his soundless screams. Over and over again until Stiles could scream himself awake or until his father was finally able to rouse him from his terrified slumber.

In the end, Stiles realized that sleep was a futile effort. So he stopped trying. It was better for all involved. His father had too much on his plate already to be dealing with Stiles' nightly drama and Stiles had no desire to live through his nightmares anymore than he had to. Instead he would lay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, and trying not to relive the moments that had so often played through his head the past two weeks. Eventually the sun would rise, the birds would begin their morning chatter and Stiles would mentally check off another day gone since his ordeal. His days became an almost constant blur. Breakfast with his father before the Sheriff made his way to work, playing video games or watching movies in an effort to keep his mind busy during the day, and then Malia to keep him occupied at night until his father came home. It was a monotonous existence but one Stiles preferred.

Until today. Today was his first day back at school. Today was the day Stiles would see if he could fool the world into thinking he was fine. He had been preparing for this moment for the past two weeks, working on his ability to smile and be the same old Stiles he always was. The fight he'd had with Malia the night before had slightly derailed his image, but he was sure he could fix any damage he'd done by being more jovial than usual. He could throw himself into his schoolwork and perhaps even lacrosse, if he could get Coach to pass off on it. He doubted his father would be very pleased with his taking up sports again this early on, but Stiles would calmly explain that he needed his life to return to as normal as possible. He was ready for the stares he would receive from the people who did not know his story, was prepared for the endless stream of questions he was sure to be bombarded with. He could handle all of that. It was his friends he was worried about. How would they react to him being back in their day to day lives? Would they be happy to see him? Or would Scott still be unable to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time?

Stiles ignored the knot in his stomach and glanced over at his clock. His vision was blurry from lack of sleep and he rubbed them tiredly. It was a symptom he was used to. Just like all the symptoms of sleep deprivation. He'd almost come to see them as companions in some way. A sort of constant he could rely on when nothing else in his world made sense. It was only five in the morning, but Stiles could feel the characteristic restlessness stirring in his brain and so he set about his morning routine. Shower, deodorant, brush teeth, gel in his hair, clothes, shoes. They were simple tasks, but by the time he was done he felt an overwhelming surge of exhaustion. He knew it was simply his body demanding what it sorely needed, but his mind would not be convinced. Instead he trudged down the stairs in search of breakfast.

Luckily, his dad had gone to the grocery store the night before and had brought home some much needed supplies. He fixed eggs, bacon and hashbrowns, the smell of the cooking food rousing him slightly from his muddled, foggy state of constant sleep deprivation. He was actually rather pleased with himself. He hadn't burned anything and, for once, had cooked he and his dad an edible meal. He poured himself some orange juice and was halfway done with his breakfast when his father came down the stairs.

"Morning kiddo," his dad said, looking at Stiles with the same worried, pinched expression that he'd had on his face for two weeks. "You're up early."

"I fixed breakfast," Stiles said in way of greeting, pointing at a plate sitting in the microwave. "I didn't want it to get cold."

"Thanks," John replied, grabbing it and sitting down next to his son. "Big day today, huh?"

"I guess."

"You sure you're ready?"

"Dad," Stiles sighed. "We've talked about this. I can't just sit around forever. It isn't doing anyone any good."

"I just think it might be too much for you to handle this soon," his father said earnestly. "You don't look great, kid."

"I'm as good as I'm ever going to be," Stiles said with a forced smile. "I can't keep putting this off. I am going to have to go back eventually. Might as well be today."

"Is there anything I can do to convince you not to go?" John asked while shoveling a mouthful of eggs into his mouth.

"Nope," Stiles said immediately. "I need to do this."

"Alright," John said reluctantly. "But today I'm driving you to school."

"Dad," Stiles protested. "Come on! You don't need to-"

"I'm doing it, Stiles. No arguments. I'm already caving in enough as it is by even allowing you to go. You're not ready. I don't care how much you say you are. Besides, you look like you are about to fall over. There is no way I'm letting you drive. You could fall asleep at the wheel and accidentally kill someone."

Stiles flinched at the words. His father noticed and immediately opened his mouth to say something. Probably something about him not going back to school that day.

"I'm fine," Stiles said before his dad could get words out.

The Sheriff was silent for a long moment, studying Stiles' face for signs of weakness. Stiles silently finished his breakfast, putting on his best poker face, despite knowing that his father could probably see right through it.

"Why won't you talk to me?" John finally asked, his voice a strangled whisper.

"What?" Stiles blurted, surprised by his dad's words.

"Talk," John repeated. "You have hardly spoken a word to me since the Nogitsune was defeated. Frankly, it scares me more than the fact that you haven't been sleeping. Hell, it scares me more than the fact that you look like a walking corpse. No matter where we've been in our lives we've always talked. You especially." He took a deep breath. "I know you blame yourself for what happened, but you can't keep going down that road."

"Dad," Stiles tried to interrupt, but was stopped by John's firm hand in the air.

"It's okay to hurt, son. You don't have to be strong for everyone. We know you went through something horrible. Just let us help you, kid. Let me in."

The sheriff's earnest eyes almost broke him. There was so much love there. So much desperation to fix what was broken in his son's life, but the sheriff couldn't fix him. Nothing could fix him. He was alone in his pain, in his terror. He had to be. He had already asked his loved ones to sacrifice so much of themselves for him. He would not...could not ask for anymore. Instead, Stiles took a steadying breath and a large sip of orange juice to buy himself time. His hand shook as it held the glass and he was sure his father noticed, but the sheriff didn't say anything. Simply waited for Stiles to say something. Anything. So Stiles did.

"Can I go to school now?"


	3. One Is The Loneliest Number

The ride from the Stilinski household to Beacon Hills High School was a quiet one. The Sheriff sat silently in the driver's seat, glancing at Stiles every couple of seconds and audibly grinding his teeth. Whether this was out of worry for his son or out of frustration at Stiles' lack of conversation, Stiles wasn't sure. Either way, he forced himself to stare resolutely out the window, ignoring his father's penetrating gaze.

It wasn't easy. Ever since his mother had died, Stiles and his father had been unbelievably close. Despite the Sheriff's constant griping that he was the father and Stiles was the son, Stiles knew that it wasn't as simple as that. The pain of losing his mother had nearly crippled them both and in the years following they had become a lifeline to one another. They took care of each other. They shared a loss that no one around them could understand and that, more than anything, made their relationship stronger.

But not today. Today Stiles needed every last drop of energy he had to deal with his classmates, his teachers and the countless other interactions he might be forced to engage in. He couldn't placate his father with a constant stream of words. He doubted the Sheriff would fall for his ruse anyways. After all, it had only been fifteen minutes earlier that his father had begged him to speak, to say _something_. If Stiles chose to make conversation now it would seem fake and rehearsed. And the Sheriff would surely call him on it.

Stiles sighed and blew out a breath on the rain-beaded windshield and watched as the heat of his breath condensed on the glass. It should have been a warm spring day, but the forecasters had been incorrect, as was often the case, and the rain came down quickly in fat drops, forcing the windshield wiper's to strain themselves to keep up.

Normally, Stiles loved the rain. He loved the way colors stood out profoundly against the overcast sky and how fresh and alive everything seemed after it rained. But he found little joy in it now. The Nogitsune had taken every last drop of joy from him and Stiles wasn't sure if he would ever get it back. The world seemed dull to him now, colors and sounds so muted that he imagined he could hear the greatest symphony ever composed while looking at the greatest piece of art ever created and feel nothing. He was a shadow now. A walking, breathing shadow, but a shadow none the less.

"I can't do this," the Sheriff said suddenly, nearly slamming on the brakes in his haste to pull of the side of the road.

"What?" Stiles said in alarm. "Dad, what are you doing?"

"I can't let you go into school like this," John explained. "You're not ready."

"We talked about this," Stiles said in exasperation. "I have to go to school. I've already missed too much. I don't want to have to retake my junior year."

"Why is this so important to you?" John asked quietly. "Why can't you see that you are still sick, son?"

"Dad," Stiles said, attempting a smile. "Come on. I'm fine. We're going to be late."

"Give me a reason," his father said softly. "One good reason why I should let you go."

"I told you—"

"Not that missing too much school crap. We both know you've never cared enough about school for me to believe that. Give me a reason. A real reason."

" I can't—" Stiles began, but had to stop. He took a steadying breath and then said, "I can't be on my own anymore, Dad. I need something to keep my mind off things or else I might go crazy. For real this time."

"I'll take time off work," John said immediately. "We can—"

"Dad," Stiles interrupted. "No. You need to be at work. You're the Sheriff and you only just got out of trouble with the department."

"You're more important than that," John replied. "And if they can't see that then—"

"I appreciate the sentiment," Stiles said, desperate for his father to understand. "But, I don't want you to take off work."

"Why?"

"Because…because I don't want you around," Stiles whispered.

He wished he could take back the words the second he saw his father's expression, but he couldn't. Besides, it was the truth. Not because Stiles didn't love his father or need him desperately. It was because he couldn't handle seeing his father's worry pinched face every time he looked at him. He hated being the cause of that, hated knowing that his dad couldn't sleep at night because Stiles was such a mess.

"Oh," the Sheriff said. "I see."

"Dad," Stiles said softly. "It's not like I—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Stiles. I understand."

Stiles could tell by the look on his father's face that he clearly didn't understand, but before Stiles could say another word, the Sheriff had put the car back into gear and had pulled into the street again. Silence ruled supreme once again, but this time Stiles wanted nothing more than to break it. He just didn't know how.

It used to be so easy for him. Talking was like breathing. He could talk about anyone and anything at anytime, but lately it was a struggle just to coordinate his own thoughts let alone configure them into words. It was as if the Nogitsune had scrubbed the very thing that made Stiles who he was from existence and left him to pick up the pieces. Which, in a way, was exactly what the spirit had done.

By the time Stiles had anything worth while to say to his father, they had pulled up in front of the school doors. Stiles was already late, but he didn't want to leave things with his dad the way they were.

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get any words out the Sheriff said, "Have a good day, Stiles. Call me if you need anything. I'll see you at home tonight."

The words Stiles so desperately wanted to say stuck in his throat and he couldn't speak. So he opened the door and walked out into the rain, shutting the door to the warmth of the car and to his father behind him. He didn't bother lifting his jacket over his head or looking behind him as his dad drove away. He merely stared up into the cloud-mottled sky and let the rain fall on his face. He shivered, but still he remained. The cold was where he belonged. Cold and dark…just like him.

The final morning bell suddenly rang and snapped Stiles out of his reverie. He realized he was drenched and shivering, his hair falling limply in strands on his face. So much for looking awesome my first day back, he thought before sprinting through the rain and into the front doors.

As the doors slammed shut behind him and echoed eerily through the empty halls, Stiles couldn't help but think about the last time he'd been here. Couldn't help but remember the final battle between the Nogitsune and his friends. A tidal wave of emotion and memories crested over him and suddenly it was all he could do to stand up right.

He panted, not able to take in enough air and his fist clenched his shirt where his heart would be. He could feel it attempting to thump its way out of his chest. Jesus, he was barely in the door and he was already failing at keeping his mask in place. Maybe he should have listened to his dad, should have stayed home because even with how haunted he was there it was nothing compared to this. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Stiles collapsed to his knees, the sound of his gasping overwhelmed by the beating of his own heart. He was shaking violently and if the black spots forming in front of his eyes were any indication he was going to pass out at any moment.

And then, as if she had been called from some secret place inside of him, Lydia was there. Her arms were around him and he could sense her presence calming him in a way nobody else could. Her scent, the feel of her hair against his cheek, the way she clung to him as if he was as much her lifeline as she was his. She kissed his cheek and whispered softly in his ear and when he finally was able to look at her he didn't see revulsion in her eyes. Pity was there, which irritated him slightly, but there was no disgust and this, more than anything else, brought him peace.

"Stiles," she said softly once he could breathe again. "Are you okay?"

He knew she wasn't asking him about the long run. He knew because he sensed that Lydia understood that he might never be okay, but in this moment he could tell her a partial truth.

"Better than I was," he said hoarsely.

She nodded as if she understood. Then again, Lydia usually did. Stiles wasn't sure if being a banshee made her more sensitive to the feelings of others or if it was just her.

"I've been waiting for you," Lydia said softly. "Malia told me you were going to try and come back today."

"She's angry with me," Stiles said.

"She's worried about you," Lydia corrected. "We all are."

Stiles didn't have much to say to that, but Lydia didn't force him. He was grateful.

"First period already started," Lydia said, studying him.

"I know. We should get going."

Lydia stopped him with one arm, grinning softly at him.

"You aren't going anywhere until we fix your hair. No friend of mine will go around looking like a drowned rat. I pride myself on my appearance, you know."

Stiles grinned at her and was surprised to find that, for the first time in a long time, it was sincere.


End file.
